For months, I have longed to bathe in the salvation of poetry, to cast a connection to the world through the page.
I used to BE poetry. I used to dive into the open waters of imagination, splashing and spraying words, page upon page, in tsunamis of black ink.
But the portal of my imagination is paused; thoughts dissolving in a melancholic ether.
But poetry is a place with no bounds; unconstrained by dimension, untethered by gravity, and impermeable of time.
Free from the burdens of flesh, yet steeped in the heart.
A poem tucks in to rest what rattles in the mind on sleepless nights.
Releasing desires unspoken, that lurk at the base of your soul quivering to enter the world.
I want to place a finger on the pulse of creativity, introspection, examination,
to see the small and unseen, to aim a magnifying glass toward myself,
and glide above the landscapes of thought with a birdseye view of humanity.
I long to hold creativity in the palm of my hands, as creativity holds the key to compassion;
braiding the past over tomorrow, and under today,
untying the knots of half-sung stories, and casting a line across cultures to bridge invisible divides.
I feel in the dark for the soft shapes of connection, and turn from the sharpness of division.
From my fingertips to the page, I will for the waters to flow once again.
To cast out a net— spanning the breadth of humanity.
I long to rise out from the ether of mental stagnation,
I long to rise out from the ether of mental stagnation, and swim up to the clarity of artistic creation.